The pistes de resistance

Alice Westgate

Last updated at 12:49 14 September 2007

After a few hours' skiing up in The Bowl - a wide, generous scoop of pistes high above Montgenevre - and drinking in the stunning view from the Eagle Rock, I'd dropped back down towards to the village for a hot chocolate.

There on the Stad, the small (but perfectly formed) French resort's racing piste, were the British Alpine Junior England Squad, tearing down their own special slalom course.

The team, clad in their trademark orange and black outfits, have given the resort their unanimous seal of approval by using it as their training base for the past three winters.

Recreational skiers probably have more in common with these immaculate sportsmen than you'd think. All will have been drawn to Montgenevre by the town's enviable snow and sun record, and by its skiing.

All will ski their socks off every day. And all will help prove there's more to French skiing than the Three Valleys. For a start, Montgenevre has been around longer than most. It is the oldest ski resort in France and is justifiably proud of its history.

By day you can explore - as I did - the 100km of piste in the resort itself, or nip over into Italy (Montgenevre is ten minutes from the border) and link up with the massive Milky Way ski area, a constellation of resorts encompassing a further 400km of pistes. There's plenty to challenge, if you're that way inclined, but there are also miles of wide, gentle runs leading down from the main lifts.

When you're done, darkness in Montgenevre doesn't necessarily mean snooze, shower and supper. Every Wednesday, the Stad is floodlit to allow night skiing - a pastime reserved for the very keen and warmly clad. Visibility is surprisingly good and there's something quite magical about conquering the hill under the stars when all around seems so inhospitable.

If you prefer your evenings to get off to a gentler start - and would rather avoid ending up with your ski boots grafted on to your feet - there's plenty of apres-ski atmosphere for a town so small.

You can wrestle with a raclette in the Ca Del Sol, call in at Bar le Graal for a genepie or two (a strangely attractive eau de vie made with herbs gathered from the mountains) and then brave the Play Boy nightclub where a disarming man in a chiffon shirt and a ponytail will fill you with enough booze to take your mind off your bruises.But as you do so, spare a thought for the young English skiers.

Every night they go home for double helpings of pasta and are in bed by 9.30pm without fail. Alcohol, smoking and a night on the town are all out of the question for them - part of the strict discipline that helps them fulfil their potential. A few beers, as if we didn't know it, sap all the strength from your body the next day. No wonder it takes most of us a good few days to find our ski legs.